


Walking O’er the Horizon

by FoxglovePrincess



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Clueless Reader, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Folklore, Happy Ending, Inspired by Brigadoon, Inspired by Doon (novel), Misunderstandings, Not Canon Compliant, Old-Fashioned, Romance, Romantic Soulmates, Soulmates, Weddings, inspired by musicals, magical places
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:00:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25793284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FoxglovePrincess/pseuds/FoxglovePrincess
Summary: Reader has been waiting to meet her soulmate all her life. When a trio of strangers stumble into Brigadoon, and she finds herself drawn to one of them, can she open her heart and find love when he can’t stay for more than a day?*written in first person. only pet names used for reader (lass/lassie, doll). minimal description of reader/narrator appearance, the reader uses female pronouns and has female anatomy.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Sam Wilson, James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers & Sam Wilson, James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader
Kudos: 56





	Walking O’er the Horizon

**Author's Note:**

> Two weeks since my last story. I’m so awed by how much love they’ve been getting (thank you to all the readers who enjoyed them!). I wanted to post this one sooner, but I initially couldn’t find the will to write it, though I had the fleshed out idea. 
> 
> So here is my little self-indulgent fic inspired by the musical Brigadoon by Lerner and Loewe (mainly the 1954 movie) and Doon (a novel) by Carey Corp and Lorie Langdon. I know their takes on the original folklore and decided to add my spin for this story, so it’s alright if you know nothing about it.
> 
> Side note/disclaimer: I don’t know anything about tending to a flock of sheep and made my best imagining for what it would be within the confines of the story, same goes for some of the language/slang (surprise! I’m not a huge scholar of 18th century Scottish linguistics). It’s fiction, I did my best.
> 
> Tell what you think in the comments. If I’m missing any tags, let me know (I tried to get everything, but no one’s perfect).
> 
> UnBeta’d, so all mistakes are mine.
> 
> Title taken from “Waitin’ for My Dearies” (a song in the musical) by Alan Jay Lerner and Frederick Loewe.
> 
> This work is not to be reposted on any other site without my explicit permission.

Squabbling words pierce through my hazy dream as I observe the antics of three men—two grouped around a map and another sitting on a rock, glaring at the horizon as he flips a knife in his metal hand.

“Dude, we are _lost_ ,” one complains.

“We are not lost, Sam. Our service isn’t working and we can’t reach Nat to track us, so we just have to find this landmark on the map,” the one holding the map replies with a confident air.

“What landmark?! This thing is falling to pieces.” The man, Sam, waves his hands around widely, clearly upset with the situation. He glares at his friend as he gestures in my direction, the stone bridge in ruins behind me. “This is bullshit. Knew I didn’t want to come all the way out to middle of Bumfuck Nowhere, Scotland. I had a date, Steve—a _date_ —with Lorelei from analytics. It was gonna be amazing.” His eyes close as he finishes, head tilted toward the heavens and regret lacing his words.

“Yeah, I know Sam, you keep saying that. Hydra just _had_ to ruin your plans,” his friend, Steve, retorts with a heavy sigh. An edge of vexation tinges his tone as he keeps surveying the map, clutched tight in his hands.

“Man, what Hydra? All we have seen is a vast expanse of green _nothing_.” Sam throws his hands up in defeat and sits heavily on a nearby boulder.

Steve’s eyes keep scanning the surrounding area, comparing the landscape to his map and grasping for any solution to their problem. It’s easy to tell that he’s trying to block out the whining of his companion, though it doesn’t stop.

They clearly can’t see me as they continue to volley back and forth in their argument like an old married couple. A giggle bursts from me as my hands reach up to muffle the sound spewing from my lips.

The sitting man looks up, storm grey eyes striking the wind from my lungs as our gazes meet. He squints at the bridge—no, he squints at _me_. My laughter dies in my throat. The man sheaths his knife and his hands curl into fists.

A vague, cloudy memory pings in the back of my skull—those eyes staring at me in pain, imploring me, begging me—but I can’t figure out from where the memory comes. A shiver runs down my spine, my hands trembling as I lower them from my face. My heart thunders in my ears. Something pulls me forward, deep in my belly, like a taut string looking for slack.

Another shiver passes through me as I resist the urge, and I look down at myself— wrapped in my white shift, the one I wore to sleep. A hot blush spreads across my cheeks as my arms cross over my chest for decency’s sake. My teeth worry over my bottom lip as panic begins to rise in my throat.

The man blinks, slow like a predator, and tilts his head to the side. Recognition sparks in his eyes and reverence washes over his features, like flowers blooming in spring. His features soften from the intensity of his glare, but hunger still lurks deep within him—I feel it burning me just the same. His body leans forward, standing from his perch. His friends don’t notice, too preoccupied with their conversation—thank God _they_ can’t see me.

Dirt crunches under my feet as they back away toward the bridge and the safety that I know lies beyond. My eyes dance away from his gaze with a great amount of effort, traveling down his body to watch his booted feet. They don’t move in my direction. I lift my eyes, take in the expanse of his broad shoulders, his solid form and rigid stance. My head shakes in denial—he can’t really see me, it’s just a trick of the dream.

I scramble at explanations that ring false even as they fly through my mind. I’m fighting against a desire to simply throw myself at him, and horrified by the reactions of my body. The cobbled stones shift under my feet as I back down the path. Anything to get away from this man in my dream and the strange fluttering he causes in my chest.

The man moves. A step, then two, in my direction. He’s slow, as if approaching a startled animal, but I don’t falter in my escape. His eyes stay locked on my form—I feel them as if he were grabbing at me. I take a long look at him, even as I retreat, long chestnut hair pulled away from his face—a face that begs me to pinpoint the reason for its familiarity, but I can’t focus on that now. The bridge stands behind me crumbling from age, and I stumble over my own feet as I start to climb over it.

The stone gives out from under me, the arch no longer standing. My eyes snap to the man’s face. He stares in horror as I fall back. Plummeting into the ice cold river, I burst up, sputtering the water away from my face.

Except, I’m in my bed. And the nearest body of water is the river that cuts through the other side of the village. I shake off the strange dream filled with strange men and pull my aching feet out from under my blanket. A chill stays wrapped around me, even as the sun shines through my window and warms my blankets.

“Lassie, get yer sorry arse down here,” my brother calls up for me.

An irritable grumble answers him as I prepare for the day, washing at the small basin on the near table and dressing as quickly as possible, struggling to pull the ties of my underpinnings and fighting my petticoat.

My lungs pull in deep breaths, evening out my heartbeat and tucking away my dream in the deep recesses of my mind. It was just a dream, it didn’t matter now. With one final glance in the mirror and a firm tug on my skirts, I lock away stray thoughts and find my firm foundation in reality.

“Right, you lousy git, what’s the racket about?” I ask as I descend the wide ladder from my loft, stomping each step for emphasis. My eyes turn to my brother with a half-hearted glare as he stands in our home with his arms crossed.

“You promised to watch the flock this morning while they graze,” he answers.

“I did not, did I?” I insist, racking my brain for the answer and coming up with nothing.

“Aye, you did,” Tam replies with a decisive nod. He jerks his head over to the window where the sheep remain in their pen and our herding dog hops around, impatient to start his duties.

I scrutinize my brother, trying to catch the lie. He simply smiles and I sigh in concession. A grumble begins at the back of my throat, but I can’t say I’m too upset by the turn of events. Glancing at him from head to toe, I click my tongue and shake my head. Tam’s slicked hair looks washed for once and his clothes clean.

“You should have married Kenna years ago if she gets you to clean up like this,” I mutter, crossing my arms. “The only other person who could make you look presentable like this is mum, God rest her soul.”

“Well,” he huffs indignantly. “I thought I should look nice on my wedding day, you daft cow.” His arm reaches out and hooks around my neck. Drawing me in, he grapples with me until I’m firmly pinned in place, chuckling merrily the whole time. “And, lucky for you, I’m marrying the most amazing woman in the world.” He smiles and releases me.

“Yeah, I know.” A sigh escapes my lips as I lick my thumb and brush away a speck of dirt lingering on his cheek. His nose scrunches in disgust, but he grins and lifts an affectionate hand to ruffle my hair.

I push him away and place my hands on my hips, surveying the room. Gathering bits of the things I will need in a basket, I prepare for my day. My mind stays focused on my task, not allowing for a second of my dream to seep back into the forefront of my mind. If my brother notices my strangely quiet mood, he doesn’t comment, though he does toss a few curious looks in my direction.

“Don’t forget to pen the sheep well before sundown so you have time to prepare for the ceremony,” my brother reminds me as I finally make my way toward the door.

“Yes, Tam, I’m well aware, you great buffoon.” I loop the basket over my arm and exit my home, ready to start my chores for the day. Duff, our herding dog, follows at my heels as I make my way to the sheep.

The sun peeks over the horizon, drenching the world in light and sparkling through the morning fog. I begin my work, having accomplished the tasks many times before. Our father taught us young, how to rotate the flock to graze, sheer them in the summer, protect them from straying too far.

My body works like a machine, mechanized in my movements as I preform the familiar motions. Unfortunately, my mind begins to wander as I work, drifting on clouds until I picture the man with stormy eyes and my heart involuntarily leaps in my chest. I pound my fist on my sternum, hoping to quiet the beat and push away the thought of him. But his face keeps appearing—soft eyes looking at me as if I hung the moon, arms warm metal and flesh wrapped tight around me—and disrupting any peace I manage to build in performing my chores.

“What are you doing?” a gruff voice calls out to me.

I startle and turn, seeing my father with his cloud of white hair and shining smile cresting the hill over the field. Duff trots up, nipping my father’s heels in greeting. I wave and look over the flock. They pay no attention to us as my father comes to stand beside me, hands planted on his waist and observing our sheep.

“Tam said I needed to take the flock to graze,” I reply as I tally the number of sheep mulling around and eating. A whistle bursts from my lips, sending Duff to corral a sheep wandering too far off from the rest.

“That boy,” my father tuts as he watches our dog run off. “I’ll be doing that today.”

I turn, shocked, to insist, “But—”

“No buts here, lass. Go spend your day as you like. Just because your older brother is getting married, doesn’t mean you have to take over everything.” My father crosses his arms and stares with a pointed gaze. I open my mouth to reply, but he cuts me off. “Maybe if you spent more time having fun, you would be getting married, too.”

A pang shocks through my heart like a dagger as my father brings up the subject. I scoff and roll my eyes, playing off the pain in with my usual attitude.

“That Niall down at the butcher’s got his eye on you,” my father pushes. His fingers pick at a loose string around one of his buttons, playing off his discomfort and insistent nature.

“He reeks of beef,” I reply, scuffing my toe in the grass and scowling. “And he’s obnoxious.” I cross my arms as well, getting defensive. We don’t look at each other, our eyes focused on the field and away from this conversation.

“You’re of marrying age, and you haven’t experienced a calling. Your match is here, you just have to find them.” My father finally turns to me, his hands hanging at his sides, a forced smile on his face.

I bite my lip, keeping the words locked down as they try to burst through me. This conversation, one repeated and beaten down, never changes. My father wants me to be happily married, but he tends to focus on the ‘married’ and less on the ‘happily’. His big, warm arm wraps around my shoulders, drawing me close to him as I sniff back the tears springing to my eyes.

“I know, lass,” he mutters. “Your mother would be better at this, but she’s not here now.” He squeezes me as I wrap my arms around his waist. We stand silent until my father admits, “I worry about you. There are many kinds of people in this world—all types. But you’re the type that needs someone—to love you, support you, cherish you.” A sigh rushes past his lips as he kisses my forehead. “You’re old enough that your old dad can’t be that for you anymore.”

I nod as he releases me. Handing over the basket I packed for myself this morning, full of food and other supplies, I retreat—refusing to meet his gaze.

“I’ll see you for the ceremony,” I say, turning away, my gaze intent on the ground beneath my feet. My father calls back a similar sentiment as I trudge down the hill toward the village square.

An ache radiates from my chest. To feel so incompetent—no calling, no real romantic prospects—for my father to worry about me so much, it hurts. _Of course_ I wanted my someone to find me, but they weren’t here and might never be. For my father to keep bringing it up, dredging up every single feeling of inadequacy, over and over. I knew he was coming from a place of concern, but why should I settle? Why should I not wait? So what if I never found my match? I could be happy—I _am_ happy, sort of.

A dried branch sticks into the road. I break off a section to twirl in my fingers as I walk along, swatting at plants and at my swinging skirt. I strike out my frustrations in small whips of aggression until my mood levels and I can focus on the anticipation for tonight.

Down the path, the village square bustles with activity—the market already in full swing. People move from stall to cart to store, bartering, buying, trading for what they need. The hum of noise and scents swirl in the air familiar and warm. A smile breaks over my face as I rush the last few feet, ready to be lost in the rush and buzz of the square.

Shouts of greeting come from all directions as I weave my way through the crowd. Many ask after my brother and Kenna. I call in return and chat with those who stop me. My gaze passes over the textiles, sweets, produce, beads that line the market. Friends pull me over to fawn over wares. I walk my way through the pressed bodies, intent on the bookseller, until a hush falls over the crowd.

One by one, every gaze turns to the town center, a fountain marking the exact middle of the village. There, standing tall and proud and profoundly confused, are three—eerily familiar looking—men. My eyes bounce from one to the next and back again. Images, murky from sleep, pop into the forefront of my mind as eyes lock onto an intense gaze pointed in my general direction.

Those captivating eyes search through the crowd, cold and wary—scrutinizing each figure before moving onto the next. His grey eyes are hard, almost blank as he examines his surroundings. None of the softness that overtook him in my dream even slightly present.

My breath catches in my throat. A hand lands on my arm—a friend needing the stability after such a surprise. She squeezes my arm and I give a reassuring squeeze back before detaching her from me. Turning my attention completely to the strangers, I gulp, my mouth dry and shock pulsing through my veins. My eyes blink, half expecting them to disappear, but they remain standing as still as anyone else.

From her cart of books standing close to the fountain, Martha greets, “Welcome to Brigadoon. Can I help you?” She steps confidently toward the three strangers, but I see her hands grasped tight in the apron wrapped around her waist.

My feet start moving before I can figure out what I’m doing. I gently push past people standing still as statues, forcing my way towards the strangers and my friend. Why? I have no idea, but something pulls me closer—call it curiosity or stupidity, either works. Giving into the urge to be involved with their interaction, it pulls at me as my hands sweat and my breath hitches. I glance back behind me as whispers start to buzz in the background.

“ _Where_ are we?” One asks—Sam, if I remember correctly. His face is contorted in incredulity and skepticism.

“Brigadoon,” Martha replies, slowed down in a patronizing way that comes off completely charming. I muffle a snort of laughter in my nose, grateful for her ability to remain so calm in the face of such an uncommon circumstance.

“Pardon our intrusion,” the blonde—Steve—says with a winning smile. And doesn’t it just cause every woman in town to go a bit weak in the knees when he does. “We were heading to a nearby town and got a bit lost on our way. If you could point us in the right direction, we’ll leave you all back to your business.”

“Yeah, why is everyone staring at us?” Sam asks as his eyes gaze over the frozen crowd, whispers growing louder about the outsiders.

I push past the last few people standing in my way and sidle up to Martha, taking one of her hands in mine before saying, “We don’t often get visitors here.” My voice wavers, but my confidence builds with each breath I pull into my lungs.

Steely blue eyes snap to me and stare, burning into my face and setting a warmth flooding through my cheeks. I clear my throat and look to Martha with a small smile. She shrugs and nudges me forward to keep talking.

“You see, here in Brigadoon, the only people who ever visit here are _allowed_ to come. Everyone’s just a bit surprised to see a group of strangers like yourselves without forewarning,” I explain, with a few gestures to expel my nervous energy. Turning my eyes to the rest of the villagers, I see a few shuffling around nervously. I bite my lip and turn back to the men. “Perhaps if you told us how you came to find this place, it would ease our worries and we’d be welcome to help you find your way?”

“The bridge,” the third man says, voice soft and gravelly. Calm washes over me at the sound of his voice, sonorous despite the brevity of his statement.

I avoid looking at him as my head bobs with a nod, knowing I would utterly unravel if I acknowledge him. My mind reflects on their story, flashing back to my dream, before deciding, “Well then, at least one of you is supposed to be here—the bridge doesn’t let just anyone across.”

Martha turns, smiling to the people in the market, and speaks so it will carry, “We have some friendly visitors. Back to work, everyone!”

A collective sigh of relief passes through the crowd as people accept the pronouncement and get back to business. Noise begins to pick up once more until everything is back to as it should be. The three men glance around as the square once more begins to clamor with activity. I step away from Martha as she turns back to her cart. She smiles at me with a knowing grin and I roll my eyes.

“But where is here? There is no Brigadoon on our map,” Steve asks, catching my arm in his grip. 

My head tilts as I take in his figure, strong and steadfast, unspeakably handsome. His grip is tender, not meant to harm. Despite his distress and that of his friends, he’s steady, gentle. I smile pleasantly.

“I suggest you talk to the professor if it’s answers you’re after. He’s up that hillside tending to some sheep,” I say with a gesture pointing them on their way, back up the hill whence I came. “If anyone can help you figure out how you stumbled your way here, it’s him.”

The three men exchange a look before Steve releases me. They nod in acceptance and two of them turn to find answers. Sam thanks me with a small grin and Steve starts to lead his friends away. But the third stays still, examining me from head to toe, a question dancing in his eyes. My feet shift beneath me, nerves racing up my spine as his attention remains locked on my figure. The silence between us stretches awkward and uncomfortable. I clear my throat to break it, when I’m interrupted.

A call of my name breaks over the crowd as Tam’s strong arms wrap around my waist, “There you are!” Rough lips press a kiss to my cheek as fingers tickle my sides. I wriggle like a worm to get out of his hold. I break free and turn to him, expectant of an explanation. “I’ve just signed the family’s marriage chronicles, so the wedding’s all ready!”

My brother’s excitement bounces around him, moving his arms and legs in shifts of movement—reminding me of a childhood filled with our mother berating him for not sitting still at church services. An affectionate smile warms my face as I see his enthusiastic anticipation for this evening’s festivities.

The weight of a burning gaze sits heavy on my shoulders. I finally give in to temptation and look at the outsider—the only one whose name I don’t know. His gaze is disdainful with hints of hostility as he sizes up Tam. I swallow nerves that burn my throat like fire. My knees shake as they ache to collapse, to jump into his arms, to have him stop staring at us like he hates us.

“Buck, come on,” Steve voice drifts over the crowd.

Turning on his heel, the man marches away. His shoulders tense and gait rigid, he follows his friends across the town square. My brow furrows as I watch him stalk off—unhappy at the change in his disposition, fighting the urge to race after him and explain away the resentment that radiates from him.

“Are you going to collect the heather?” Tam asks as he slings his arm over my shoulder.

“Yes,” I mutter, distracted by the figure who does not look back even once before disappearing from my view. A pained whimper cracks in my throat before I swallow it down and trap it in my belly. As my mind drifts back to the moment, I elbow my brother in the gut and push him away as his body folds over. “That’s for lying to me and making me watch the flock when dad was going to do it all along.”

“I had things to do,” Tam explains as he breathes deeply and stands upright. “The chronicle had to be signed and I needed to ready my kilt.”

“If I find out you tried to find Kenna,” I scold, wagging my finger in his face, “I’ll cut you to pieces and drag you through the mud.” My hands rest on my hips as a guilty look overtakes my brother’s face. Irritation takes over me as I lecture my brother. “You know you’re not supposed to see your bride on your wedding day. And you’re not supposed to make it harder on her when she’s already hidden away at home.”

“I know,” he replies, dropping his gaze.

An exasperated huff blows past my lips as I raise my hand to point in the direction of the field, “Now that you’re done with all your business and no-good mischief, go help dad with the flock and be useful, so help me God.”

Tam nods, head hanging low and shuffling off to find our father—and probably the strangers along with him. I sigh and look back around our village.

“So,” Martha hums from her cart of books, “those boys were quite fine.” My eyes drift to her, my hands once again resting on my hips. “You certainly seemed taken by the broody one with those intense eyes. I like the one with the keen gaze and hint of humor, seems like just my kind of man.”

“His name is Sam,” I mutter before I realize my mistake. My eyes widen as I look to her, heart thudding in my chest.

“Well, at least we know why they’re here, then,” she say, her eyebrows almost raised to her hairline. A smile warps her face as she claps. “You’ve found your match!” Her feet dance a little jig in place as she giggles with giddy delight. She rushes over, grasping my hands in hers and pulling me closer. Her voice drops conspiratorially, “Do you always know where he is? Can you hear him up here?” She taps her temple. “My mum always says that’s how you know. Though Eoin always claimed he could taste the same things and hear the same sounds, but couldn’t find them to save his soul.”

Her interrogation hits me like a slap to the face. I shake my head in denial, mouth opening to refute her statements, but getting lost in the thought of experiencing none of those things. I step closer, lowering my voice and looking at the people around us with the hope that they aren’t eavesdropping.

“It’s not like that,” I whisper, panic and dismay coloring my words. My eyes lower to the ground. “It’s not a—”

“Not a calling?” Martha tilts her head, taking a long look at me.

“I haven’t felt any of those things.” My mouth clamps together before I think of telling her about my strange dream this morning, convinced it means nothing—just a trick of my brain, remembering something that didn’t happen. I fidget under her gaze, feeling like a child waiting for chastisement.

She hums and shrugs in disappointment. “Well, he is very handsome, in any case.” A sigh leaves my lips as I nod my agreement.

A customer walks up to her cart, stealing her attention. The need to escape rushes through me and I turn on my heel, forgetting about my initial quest to find a new book to read.

Though curiosity burns in my veins and I ache to go find Buck, as Steve called him, knowing exactly where they will be, I force myself to walk in the opposite direction. Each step feeling like slogging through waist-deep mud.

*

Heather grows wild and free throughout Brigadoon and can be found on any hillside. I pick a hill far away from the outsiders and sit in the shade of a nearby tree, attempting to straighten out my thoughts. The heather sways softly in the breeze as I pick at the grass beneath me and try with all my might to think of something other than running down the hill to find the professor—and those men.

My skin itches as the moments tick by. A petulant grunt rumbles in my throat as I stand and kick at the dirt. Muttered curses spill from my lips as I begin to gather heather, great bunches that will be used to decorate the wedding, the rest to be used to brew heather ale. Irritation lingers inside me, spiting my preoccupation with a man I don’t even know.

The sun shines overhead, warming my body and coaxing my skin to sweat. As I tie bundles of the flowered plant together, a breeze blows stray strands of hair around my face. I push them away and keep working, thankful for the cool respite despite the small nuisance.

A deep breath fills my lungs as I tie the last bundle. My eyes close as I exhale, peace washing over me. It is then that I notice the focus of a pensive gaze watching my every move.

Glancing up, I see him—the unnamed stranger, Buck—standing in the shade by the tree. He leans against the trunk, arms crossed, staring. For a moment, I stare right back, not wavering in my gaze as we size one another up.

My back straightens as I gather up the bundles I’ve been collecting and saunter over to the shade. The coolness feels pleasant as I stand beside the man.

“The professor answer all your questions?” I ask as the heather drops from my arms, thumping onto the grass.

My hands rest on my hips as I square up to Buck and take a good look at his form. And, oh, is it a good one. Why have I been fixating on his eyes this whole time when there’s the whole rest of him to gawk at? The long silky hair, broad shoulders, sculpted chest, bulging arms, thick thighs—if the gods did not form him in their image just to make me quiver and sigh, dazed and dreamy.

Relaxing his stance, his thumbs hook onto his belt. His eyes dance away from me, though somehow I know he’s still looking—I can feel it. His sharp profile stands out against the bright daylight, wrapped in the shadows of the shade.

“He’s very knowledgeable about this place,” Buck says. I nod and cross my arms, waiting for him to continue. “Said that one of us was likely brought here through a calling and the others followed along.”

I nod my head again and step closer to the trunk of the tree, sitting down near its roots and leaning back. My gaze travels up the line of his figure, resting on his face. His eyes are focused on me, now, as if I were a book he sought to read.

“He told us about your village, the Great Miracle, briefly. He told us about how newcomers usually arrive to someone waiting for them, but said that callings manifest in many forms,” he states. He doesn’t finish his thought, an unspoken question waiting to be answered.

“He told you how witches were swarming the country, evil crafts corrupting the land? How the Protector saw the threat to our village and performed the Great Miracle to protect us from harm?” I ask. He nods his head, brow furrowed and eyes sharp. I continue, “The world passes us by, our time slowed to a near standstill. I’ve heard tell, from outsiders like yourself, that there’s lore about our town—sleeping for one hundred years and waking only for a day.” I run my hand through my hair, pulling on strands and braiding them back, away from my face. I gather my thoughts before speaking again, tying off my hair and turning my attention back to my audience. “It’s not like that. Our time is just slower compared to everyone in the outside world. I still remember the day of the Miracle—it’s not been ten years since it happened.”

Confusion colors his face as he squats down to sit on the ground beside me. “But the professor talked about all the improvements of technology, how rapidly things have changed.”

My head nods as I explain, “Aye, we have more modern printing presses, some plumbing, and bits of electricity, but not every new invention makes its way here.” My lips press together as I contemplate what to say. My head tilts as I stare at Buck’s face and speak, “The Protector knew that our small village would wither and die without newcomers to help sustain our way of life and enrich our traditions.” I smile. “So outsiders are called to us. To invent, to expand,” warmth blossoms on my face as my eyes dart away from the man sitting beside me, “to love.”

Neither of us speak for a moment. The breeze swirls around us, the day pleasant and bright. A bubble of joy grows in my stomach the longer I spend sitting beside Buck and sharing his company.

“Why does the Protector pick the people they do?” Buck finally asks, his brow narrowed and fists clenching as they rest on his knees. His face is troubled, something gnawing at him and causing him pain.

“A calling to Brigadoon is hard to explain, ’less you’ve felt it. They say everyone experiences something different,” I say, wanting nothing more than to ease his unsettled mind.

The breeze blowing through across the hill pulls at the loose strands of my hair. I push them away from my face and turn my gaze over the dancing heather. My eyes close and I breathe deeply.

“I’ve never had a calling myself, as far as I know, but those who have come to help Brigadoon—have been called to this place—say they’ve always felt a wanderlust, an ache in their chest for a home which they’ve never known.” Gentle fingers caress my cheek, taming the hair around my face once more, tucking it behind my ear. My eyes flutter open and meet blue ones much closer to me than I expected. Shuffling back for space, trying to keep my breathing even, I swallow hard and continue, “A calling to a person in Brigadoon seems to be similar, from what I’ve heard. But, different.” My tongue halts over the words, something inside screaming them to be insufficient. My brow furrows as my lips pout, trying to think of a better way to explain.

But Buck doesn’t seem to mind, amused by my slight frustration, a smirk crosses his face as he leans back against the trunk of the tree with an easy sigh. I clear my throat and wrap my arms around my knees, pulling them close to my chest.

“Similar, but different,” he mutters with an amused huff.

“The Protector shows us the way to our soulmate—the one that will match us and challenge us in the ways we need—whether they be in the village already or out of our reach. It’s personal, so not a lot of people share their experiences and how they’re connected, but you notice things, if you pay attention.” I shrug and avoid looking at him as my cheeks bloom with heat.

“Sounds like you’ve thought a lot about it,” he comments. His voice holds no accusation or judgment, but my mind jumps on his statement.

“You saying that’s a bad thing? Think my head is in the clouds—that I’ve lost the plot?” I comment back, snark dripping from my words. A frown covers my face as I muster up a glare.

He jolts upright and sputters, waving his hands to negate my assumption, “That’s not what I—”

A cheeky smile sits on my lips as I turn my attention to him, “Aye, I know.” A laugh barks from my lips followed by a snort as I glance at his dumbstruck face. “My father always says that I’m more trouble than I’m worth, but I can’t just let opportunities pass me by, now can I?”

“Your father is a very smart man,” he chuckles, tilting his head toward the sky and sighing.

A grin rests on his lips as he relaxes completely. I fight the tingle in my fingers that want to trace over the lines and edges of his features. They twitch and I fist them in the fabric of my skirt to prevent them their desire.

I cling to the conversation as a distraction, “He should be, he _is_ the professor.” Mirth bubbles in my stomach as the man jerks upright once more and turns on me.

“Your father?” he asks.

“Aye,” I reply, “we keep our flock, but before the Great Miracle, my father was a man of learning—that hasn’t changed. He keeps our history and chronicles the inventions that advance our little town.”

“If he’s your father, why didn’t you come with us to meet him?” Skepticism drips heavy from his words as he once again analyzes me, his shoulders tensing incrementally. A large part of me mourns the loss of his relaxed state.

My brow arches at his question as I respond, “So I’m supposed to hold your hand and guide you along, like I don’t have enough to do to prepare for my brother’s wedding tonight.”

Buck sits straighter, eyes igniting with some unknown expression. “Your brother’s getting married?”

“Aye,” I nod with an amused grin.

“The man in the village was your brother?” There’s a distinct edge of hope to his words that I don’t quite dare try to understand, but then he smiles. And, good Lord, does it just brighten up the day and scare away any sign of clouds.

“Yes,” I mutter, completely dazed by his beauty.

“That’s wonderful,” Buck sighs and sinks against the tree trunk, curling toward me like some kind of satisfied cat. His eyes glint with bright light as a dopey smile spreads on his lips. A confused chuckle springs from my lips as I watch his strange reaction.

My head shakes as I stand, brushing off my hands and righting my skirt. My arms pile high with bundles of heather as I say, “You’re perfectly welcome to join in on the celebration, if you’re interested. Might be nice for you to see how we do weddings here, seeing as you’ll never witness one again.” I look down at Buck sitting against the tree and reluctance overtakes me. I scuff my toe in the grass and mutter, “But I should probably leave to get these ready.”

My head bobs in a nod as I take one last long look and turn away from him, starting to walk back down the hill toward home. Scuffling sounds behind me as I keep walking and hands grab at some of the heather, taking a few of the bundles into strong arms and alleviating my burden.

“What do you mean, that I’ll never witness one again?” he asks quickly, breathing slightly heavy as he walks next to me.

I keep my gaze straight on the road, knowing I’ll more easily control my pained expression as I answer his question. We walk a few steps before I answer.

“Outsiders only get one day to see the glory of Brigadoon. If you experience a calling, you use that day to decide if you’re willing to leave your life behind and stay here. Elsewise, the town will be gone by the end of the day.” My shoes crunch as little rocks and pebbles shift under my steps. My eyes turn down, focusing on where I’m going to ignore the company beside me—and all the emotions welling up inside my chest.

“How do you stay?” he asks, grabbing my arm and halting my journey back home.

His metal thumb absentmindedly strokes over my skin, eyes promising something I refuse to contemplate. He stares at my arm, not meeting my gaze, but, still, my breath catches in my throat as I take a step closer to him. My brows scrunch at the ache scratching behind my ribcage—why was _I_ the one he came to for all these answers?

“Like I said, you’ve got to have a calling—a soul-deep love of this place or a person,” I reply, my eyes fixed on the road as my voice cracks. “If you don’t, there’s no tether to keep you here.”

“What if I have that?” His gaze bores into me as I lift my eyes to meet his. He clutches the bundles of heather under one arm as he keeps his grip on mine—fingers firm and keeping me in place. Sparks flicker in his eyes as he looks at me.

“You’ve felt the song of Brigadoon deep within you?” I nearly choke on the words as they spill out of my mouth, hope bubbling deep in my gut.

My lungs pull in a deep breath as his gaze leaves mine and he shakes his head. Shattering rings through my ears as his face falls in an unreadable expression—traces of pain and uncertainty.

“I wouldn’t say that,” he answers, his fingers loosening and dropping from my arm.

I gather up the last tiny pieces of my composure before I open my mouth once more. “Then you’ll have your day, I suppose,” I say with a shrug. My tongue feels thick, clumsy in my mouth as I force the words out and into the air hanging between us. “And you’ll not have another for one hundred years, so they say.”

Buck’s mouth opens, as if to say something more, but he closes it and shakes his head. His hair brushes over his shoulders, creating a curtain around his face, blocking me from seeing his expression.

We remain silent as the wind brushes through the highlands, playing with the ends of our hair, my skirt billowing. His face doesn’t turn back to mine, his metal fist clenching at his side, a soft whirring accompanying the movement. I want to reach out and smooth each finger, soothe him with a gentle touch, but I restrain myself.

My teeth worry over my bottom lip and my eyes itch as they begin to water. All the years I’ve waited—to think I would be lucky enough to have this—it was just a fleeting fantasy. And what did we have anyway? I saw his friends by the bridge in a dream, we met in the square, he followed me over the hills, and we talked—of course that wasn’t enough.

“Hey man,” a voice calls, snapping me out of my mind. Sam approaches and claps his friend on the back.

A weary smile pulls on the strained muscles of my face as I greet the two approaching men. I look back to the man beside me and gently grab at the bundles of heather in his arm.

As Sam and Steve greet me back, I turn to Buck, feigning an introduction, just to hear his voice, “I never did catch your name.”

Finally, his eyes meet mine once again, weary and devastated. “James Buchanan Barnes, but my fiends call me Bucky.” His hand reaches out.

With a juggle of the heather in my arms, I reach out my own, reciting my name for him. His palm presses firm to mine, warmth radiating through his digits. I hold on to it as long as I can. Withdrawing my hand, I realize this may well be the end of our personal interactions. The wedding may keep me too busy, and, by midnight, I’ll never see James again.

“Well,” I sniff, “enjoy the rest of your day, James.” I retreat away from them, my feet carrying me as fast as I can travel.

Knocking into the door of my home with my shoulder, I curse to myself and toss the heather aside. My hand reaches up to rub against the soreness, but pain more deeply wracks my body with sobs as my legs collapse out from under me. Resounding awareness of my loneliness weighs heavy on my chest as I gasp in great breaths of air. Why I’m crying like the world is ending, I don’t understand. James Barnes was _not_ my soulmate, we didn’t share that connection—did we?—we shared nothing like Martha said.

Sniffing and wiping away my tears, I pull myself up, shove sorrow away, and set to work, braiding crowns of heather for the wedding and weaving together stems for bouquets. I carry them in baskets to the village square to help set up the celebration after the ceremony. I lose myself in the instructions given to me—to arrange flowers here or move a table there. As the day draws to sunset, I’m hurried off back home to get ready with instructions and flowers shoved at me as I rush off.

The door opens behind me as I retreat up to my room to change into more formal attire for the wedding. I wipe away sweat and tears, sighing at the redness of my eyes and the puffiness beneath. Changing into my dress, one of my Sunday best, I undo the braid in my hair and arrange it more smartly for the wedding, weaving in the sprigs of wildflowers I was given.

“Lass,” my father calls to me, “are you almost ready?”

I descend carefully down the steps, fisting the bottom of my skirt tight in my hands to prevent me from tripping. A prideful exhalation of praise blows out my father’s lips.

“Gorgeous, darling,” he says, holding out his arm for me to take. I shuffle over to him, avoiding his gaze, but nothing escapes my father’s keen observation. “And what’s this?”

He tilts my chin to the warm light of the fading sun, brushing his thumb over my cheeks. Eyes still showing traces from my episode of despair, I sniff as tears form in my eyes under my father’s scrutiny.

“I—I don’t know,” I croak, my mouth twitching in an attempt at a smile. The muscles of my lips fall slack, unable to bear the strain of such an expression.

My father remains silent, whether he waits for me to spill the contents of my heart or simply does not know the words to comfort me, I couldn’t guess. Instead, I brush my hands over my face, groaning into them as I hide myself from his inspection.

“I don’t understand this,” I whine out through gritted teeth. “He just appears out of nowhere, tromping through my defenses and absolutely wrecking everything.” My back turns toward my father as I gather up the thing I need, aggressive and hasty as I wrap them up into my arms. “He’s just a man, but I take one look at him and lose my senses. It can’t be so simple and, yet, it is and—”

My father wraps his arms around me, pulling me into his embrace. My fingers dig into the arms of his shirt, as if to rip them apart. Fury and anguish course through my veins in equal measure, burning away all energy and leaving me empty.

“And I’m going to lose him in a matter of hours before I even have him,” I cry into the broad shoulders of my father.

Warm hands tilt my head up, kissing my forehead in paternal comfort. His brows furrow in concern as he speaks, “He is not called to you?” I shake my head, unable to voice it—that I don’t think he’s mine, but I want him to be. My father sighs. “Then you take the small moments of happiness you can, save your worry for tomorrow and treasure what you are given today.”

I nod and drag the little broken pieces of myself together, stepping away from my father and donning a smile that does not reach my eyes. Tam barges into the room, with impeccable timing, as I take a final wipe at my face and juggle the things in my hands.

“I’m getting married!” he cries, shoving his hands in the air with elation. A hearty, joyous laugh sings through the air as he lifts me off my feet in a spin.

I shriek and grasp the pile of necessities tightly in my arms. My feet reach the floor once more, giddiness chipping away at the heaviness that rests on my shoulders.

My family prepares ourselves and takes the journey to the small church in our village. The ceremony passes in a blur of happy tears and cheers of jubilation. The wedding party dances through the town, converging on the square and the celebration of the happy couple begins.

Firelight dances over the newlyweds as musicians play their cheery tunes and people step in time with the jigs. Bouquets of wildflowers drape over every table, piled high with delectable foods—pies, roasted meats, fruits, and vegetables. Gaiety and laughter echo throughout the town. Wine and ale overflow from the goblets and cups provided.

The outsiders stand around the fray, their presence a welcome surprise and a constant in my periphery. Sam and Steve laugh boisterously with members of the village, fitting in with the crowd and enjoying their time. James circles the throng of happy villagers, eyes scanning each face as he passes, searching for someone—for me. My own path skirts around him, keeping out of his sight and away from his reach. Until he disappears from view.

“You’re avoiding me,” a voice says as a hand grasps my wrist.

My head whips in their direction, seeing James behind me, hair tied back at the nape of his neck and eyes a kaleidoscope of smoldering fire. A breathy huff of laughter breaks through my lips—relief, the slightest glimmer of hope, and hidden misery. He draws me close, wrapping a hand around my waist. His chest presses to mine as our foreheads touch.

“I,” my voice cracks, “I was.” The confession slips from my lips as my eyes watch his face, the slightest glimpse of his tongue licking over his bottom lip.

“Well, I won’t let you anymore.” His fingers press into me as a smile breaks over his face. My face has no choice but to mirror his happy expression.

In the revelry of the celebration, we cling to each other. He does not leave my side, his hand grasping in my skirts, keeping tethered to me. Our conversation flows as freely as the spirits around us. As the crowd grows drunker, so do I—simply from being so close to James, his presence clouding my head and knocking me delightfully off-kilter.

And then the bell rings—the beginning of twelve chimes marking the close of the day.

Before I even open my mouth, James grasps my hands in his. His brow furrows as he clutches me, grabbing me closer as if crawling up my body. Resignation sets into my bones, calm washing over me with each stroke of the bell.

“I want to stay,” James pleads, eyes alight with panic and desperation. A smile spreads on my lips, plaintive and patient.

“Do you know without a doubt that you’re meant to?” I ask, tone even as my heart shatters away piece by piece.

“Bucky!” Steve cries across the town, no doubt sensing the impending disappearance of everything around them. Their bodies push past people, and I see it—the forms of the townspeople slowing and fading.

My gaze turns back to James, waiting for his response. He shakes his head, confirming my most dreaded fear. His eyes flip between my face and his friends. A silent sigh escapes me as I gather my strength.

“It’s okay,” I murmur, my hand caressing his face, smoothing the wrinkles caused by his distress. His eyes lock on mine as he leans into my touch. “May I see you in my dreams every night.” My lips press against his cheek, even as he disappears from my sight, drifting away back to his world—the real world—as the final bell rings.

A small, pained smile breaks across my face as my father wraps his arms around me and holds me together in the midst of the rapturous celebration.

*

Hollow. My chest aches like a carved out husk, raw and ragged. It seems that the old phrase of ‘not knowing what you have until you lose it’ rings true.

After my brother’s wedding, the dreams kept coming—James fighting against enemies; a soldier with cold, empty eyes; a man scared and confused in captivity; a young man drafted to a war he had no desire to fight; a charmer dancing through life with different ladies on his arm every night—now accompanied by the realization that I had witnessed all these events in dreams _before_.

Every night spent tormented by my own foolishness and obliviousness. My final prayer with him in my arms cursing me. The knowledge of my own soulmate, slipping through my fingers like the finest sand. Each morning waking up more exhausted and falling deeper into apathy.

Those who fulfilled a calling to their soulmate had never talked about them enough to share their experiences—thinking it would taint the purity of another’s encounter. Anecdotes and speculation circulated throughout town, but nothing was confirmed or explained.

So I _make them_ share, forcing them to tell me how they felt, what they saw, how they knew for certain. I begin a record, detailing each word they speak, each observation of their character and displays of affection. It only adds to my own misery to hear them talk about it, to write my own experiences, but it’s something I _have_ to do until I have it all compiled—for the ones who will come after me.

Time passes. I don’t track it despite the growing gnawing that scrapes my very soul more and more with each passing day. I simply continue my old chores and my new task—a distraction which only leads me back to my own pain in a cycle of hopelessness.

“Does it get easier?” I ask one day as my father sits at our table, eating his breakfast. My hands soak in the water of the sink, washing dishes and cleaning away grime. The morning light out the kitchen window paints our home with light, but cannot warm my skin.

“Eventually,” he replies, his voice drifting over the song of birds and bleating of sheep. “Eventually, you stop thinking of the pain and start living the life you have left.”

I pull a deep lungful of air into my body, drawing in all the strength I can find as I nod. My hands draw away from the water, shaking off droplets before rubbing dry on the nearby cloth.

My hands gather a basket—food, a book, everything else I need to take care of the sheep. I leave my home and Duff comes to my side, herding me to the sheep pen. With an empty chuckle, I follow his lead and set about my work.

The day passes with a cool breeze and the familiar, comforting monotony that accompanies the chore of tending the flock. I sit beneath a tree, in the shade, reading my book as Duff keeps me company. The herding dog runs out every once in a while on my order to keep the sheep from wandering too far. But the serenity of the day remains in place—accompanied by plenty of silent time to contemplate, regret, and perseverate over my mistakes and the consequences.

As the sun sets over the hill, I call Duff and herd the sheep back into their pen. The light of home greets me as night descends over Brigadoon, another day passed. I eat supper with my father as Duff begs for scraps from the table. The lights of the village reflect in our windows, the streetlights illuminating the night until they are extinguished.

I prepare for sleep, prolonging it as much as I can before falling into bed. The light of my candle casts a warm glow on my bedside table, my record of the town’s callings sitting just beside it. I blow out the light and lay down.

Sleep pulls me under and I relinquish control to the darkness.

I awake from a dreamless slumber, coming to consciousness like being struck with a bolt of lightning. My body jolts upright and I scramble to light my candle.

The sound of my name echoes in the darkness. My eyes dart to the window and I stand on shaky legs. Drawing a dressing gown around my shoulders, I open the window and let the fresh air wash over me. A shiver races down my spine, though not from the cold.

My name echoes once more as I race to dress, lacing my underthings with fumbling hurried fingers and pulling a dress over me as quickly as I can. The candle beside my bed flickers, but I grab it, shielding the flame from the wind.

I climb down the stairs, sneaking past my father as he snoozes in his room with the door open. Duff’s head lifts from the bed, but I shush him silently and he turns back to his dreams.

My hands grasp a shawl from a peg on the wall to ward off the chill of the night as I burst through the door. Darkness encompasses me, the streetlights extinguished so late at night. My feet carry me in the direction of the town square, dragging me toward something familiar and unknown. As I approach, lights flicker to life in the center of the village.

I stumble as I see the figure standing there, waiting.

Words stick to my dry throat, choking me and keeping me silent. A million thoughts race through my head, trying to understand what is happening and cursing my dreams for making this seem so _real_. My candle finds a place on a sturdy rock along the road as it blows out.

I swallow and call over to the figure, “And what time do you call this?” He turns to me—my James—but stays in place. My hands wildly gesticulate as I approach him, still speaking if only to fill the silence and alleviate my shock. “Waking me up and—and dragging me from my warm, cozy bed, like some kind of miracle, pulling me here.” Standing before him, I take in the surprise on his face. His hands twitch at his sides and he watches me, trying to analyze the reality of the situation. “In the middle of the night, no less, and you just stand there, saying nothing like I haven’t been waiting—”

His lips slam into mine, dragging me the last couple of inches closer to his body and trapping me in his embrace. His hands thread through the strands of my hair, fingernails scratching deliciously across my scalp, pulling my face closer and locking our lips together. He licks into my mouth, passion and heat warming my blood.

My hands claw at the fabric of his shirt, holding on with the strongest grip I can muster. His kiss tastes of salt as a tear leaks from my eye and drips down my face. I whimper into his mouth, knees growing weaker and head lighter without air. But he keeps us together, even as our lips part, exchanging breaths as our foreheads rest against each other.

“James, I—how did you get here?” I whisper, reluctant to break the moment and wake from this dream.

He shakes his head, dismissing my question and breathing deeply, his lips trace over my cheeks, my temple, my jaw. He breathes me in, but doesn’t speak and it kills me with each second that passes.

“Are you really here? How is this possible?” I ask, tears threatening to overflow from my eyes, voice scraping over the syllables.

“I’m here, I’m here,” he chants as he wraps me closer, burying my face in his neck and trying to press us closer than humanly possible. “I’m sorry it took me so long.”

I look up and wipe the tears tracking down his cheeks. “What happened?”

“I doubted my own eyes, my heart—didn’t think this could be real—and that doubt took me away from you.” His voice cracks as he speaks and I shush him, caressing his face to soothe him. “Steve and Sam, they convinced me it was all a dream, some wild shared hallucination.” His eyes gaze into mine, filled with a sadness as deep as the ocean. “With my past, I believed them easily—too easily. But nothing felt right at home, and I kept seeing you everywhere,” he says with a kiss to my cheek. “I thought I was going insane. You would appear to me like you did on the bridge, but you looked so sad—no trace of light in these beautiful eyes.” His thumb brushes my cheek and his hand cradles my jaw. He looks at me like a treasure, found after an arduous quest—precious, cherished.

“You saw me?” I ask, words whispered with wonder.

“I’ve always seen you, doll.” He tilts his head, grasping my hand and placing kisses across each fingertip. “I forgot for a while, but you have always been right here.” He moves my hand to cover his heart, the steady thud of its beat under my hand.

“I forgot, too. And I didn’t say anything to keep you here,” I admit, guilt festering in my stomach before he clears it away with an understanding smile, quietly shushing my worries. I press my lips to his jaw, the scrape of his stubble against the softness of my lips. “But how did you get back? That shouldn’t have been possible,” I sniff. My hands press into his chest, trying to tether myself to his form, to keep us together—knowing I couldn’t survive if he were taken from me again—one of my hands snaking around his back.

“I had to see if I could still find it—find you,” he explains. A sad smile graces his lips. I can’t bring myself to close my eyes, though I feel him with my own hands, I can’t convince myself that if I blink he won’t disappear. “I just wanted to see, even if it was just to say goodbye without another glimpse of you.” His laugh is incredulous as he glances down to his feet. “And then I find myself standing here, in the middle of the square and you’re right there in front of me.”

“You woke me up,” I whisper, elated disbelief dripping from every syllable.

“I’m sorry, doll, but I’ll have the rest of our days to repent for it.” His smile washes away all trace of sadness from his face, bright and joyful, realization setting in for us both. My face moves, for the first time in too long, to mirror his—finally, a smile not tainted by despair.

My hand snakes up his chest, wrapping around his neck and drawing his lips to mine. We kiss—pouring love, devotion, affection into each other, healing our hurt and starting together anew. I close my eyes, losing myself in him. His hands grip me tight, not in fear of losing me, but in the ecstatic joy of finding me again. His arms reach beneath my legs and lift me into the air. My delighted shriek breaks our kiss as I cling to him, wrapping my body around his and keeping him close.

He holds me as though I weigh nothing. And with the brightness shining through both of us, I wouldn’t be surprised if we floated off the ground altogether, climbing higher toward heaven with every expression of love. Bucky draws me back to kiss him, parted for too long—even a second feeling like an eternity.

We laugh into each other’s lips as the sun breaks the new dawn over the highlands, blanketing us with light and welcoming a new day.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading my little self-indulgent fic! I’ve been in love with this musical since I was little and I thought it would make an interesting piece of fan fiction. I’m pretty pleased with the results.
> 
> If you enjoyed it, leave a kudos and maybe a comment. I would love to hear your feedback!


End file.
